


Sour Candy

by moon_hedgehog



Category: The Glass Scientists (Webcomic), The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Assassins & Hitmen, Crossdressing, M/M, Minor Violence, Modern, Porn With Plot, Strangers to Lovers, Yakuza, he's also a bitch tho, henry is probably an enby, much more plot than porn rip, swearing swearing everywhere, this is just crack at this point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_hedgehog/pseuds/moon_hedgehog
Summary: Henry's task is relatively easy - he's been killing all these mob bosses since day one. However, this time it's going horribly not according to the plan. Which is... irritating.
Relationships: Edward Hyde/Dr. Henry Jekyll
Comments: 4
Kudos: 75





	Sour Candy

**Author's Note:**

> imagine [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fnPn6At3v28) blasting in that stripclub, alright 😔

In light of the midday sun, rubies behind the window of another (one more) expensive jewelry store sparkle like drops of frozen blood. Were rings made of it, Henry Jekyll would never miss an opportunity to wear at least ten of them – for each finger, and yes, bigger, bigger. So far, he is obliged to be content only with stones extracted from Third World countries, and this fact in itself irritates him indescribably. As well as the one that in the nearest shop of snacks have ended so much by him adored candies with sour taste; as well as the one that for a week now he's been sitting without any, any and  _ all  _ work, clicking the remote controller through thousands of thousands channels with Asian dramas. All the gilded taps of his deluxe room have managed to suffer from their endless jerking, and all the receptionists of his hotel scattered like chickens at the sight of his shaggy hair. From the option “to commit suicide from boredom”, all this time the guy's been kept by one thing only. Shopping.

Well, and… the promise of a soon granting of a target.

Spring in Tokyo stood out noisy and bright; hundreds of locals and thousands of tourists have been scurrying here and there through the streets, enjoying the weather and – apparently – the reigning chaos. Henry's visa is proudly marked with “as contract worker”, although on the passport itself he looks once every nth number of days. Across all the borders of the world he's gently guided by The Organization's hand – read as: by the Boss' – and he's managed to visit little-lot 15 different countries, of each's Duty-Free somehow taking out perfumes. One per one land, one airport, and one memory. Per lots of fuss. Here the brunet's sticking for about two weeks, one of which was fun – the case required to be creative – and one is currently killing with hopeless longing. Putting hand on heart, Jekyll really-really been wanting such rest for a long: when, instead of hiding knives in marvelous places of his body, he just walks the streets of a pretty city and buys clothes. In reality, everything's turned out to be not so romantic at all. So when at the exit from another (one more) expensive jewelry store in the pocket of his pants vibrates a brand-new phone, the guy looks at the screen and squeaks like a kid.

It's happened. Henry Jekyll – a Scot by blood, a sociopath by diagnosis and The Organization's best assassin by right – gets a new damn target.

✰

In the very morning hours called noon, this best assassin – and so on and so forth – suddenly indulges in memories of the past (but by fact – simply doesn't want to crawl out of bed). A rough childhood, so characteristic of the antagonists of his level, Henry had never. As well as teenagehood. At the age of six, he accidentally strangled a family cat. At eight it was no accident. By ten he was set as an example to some neighbor boy, which for the first and last time made Jekyll feel something – he liked neither example nor the boy. However, by twelve he was set as an example to the whole class. Prayers of his parents were heard when at fourteen and after, sixteen, puberty period overlooked him both externally and internally. On the fact that their son is training to throw knives on innocent and unsuspecting birds, they responsibly decided to close eyes.

(Oh gross! - Henry grosses, remembering that from those knives he had to clean the adhering feathers).

At nineteen on their son dawned the realization that, probably, being completely indifferent to everything and manipulating superficial emotions isn't quite the state in which live all the people around him. Pondering over it for literally five minutes, he – just as responsibly – decided well fuck it all then. And began honing skills no longer on birds.

Whatever happened in his exciting and not at all boring life afterward, Jekyll is prevented from remembering by an incoming message. This is his supervisor and he sends even more details about the target and the situation around it. Falling outta bed, powdering cheeks and pulling on pink shoes with oooh so long heels, the brunet - straightens his hair first and then – sighs bitterly. Honest talk, he doesn't like it in the land of the rising sun. Small bipods of The Organization are snapped up by tearing this country yakuza like hotcakes, and big ones – like him – have to wait for  _ really _ elite customers from those who peacefully graze at the top. Such sheep risk almost everything hiring an inexperienced and/or frivolous killer, and therefore prefer to invest in the one who's devoted their whole – or half – life to this. Their money stinks. With Chanel perfumes and blood, which means with those two only things Henry isn't indifferent to. Maybe that's why he's still hanging around here, not running along the ruddy streets of Italy. And this surely, definitely, most rightly not at all because bosses threatened to liquidate real fast if he suddenly abandons the Deal of Their Entire Year. Yeah. Absolutely. Who's buying him, again? Oh, to hell with them. Flying from the hotel, Jekyll, on his own two feet – don't attract looks, baby – gets to his destination and oh shit, how far it is from the place he's accommodated in. The lights of Kabukichō have not yet had time to turn red – outside reigns day, and at first glance, everything looks as decorous as a fresco. But with each passing second, experienced eye picks up what the inexperienced could never: here peels off light blue paint, and here, like a stream, passes a crack, and here, instead of a white pattern flaunts scarlet one. With the onset of darkness, on this small piece of land open so many strip clubs and erotic theaters, so many love hotels and shops that to count them ain't possible by ten peoples' fingers. But then, this too is a facade – in behind-the-scenes world of this district hide just as many illegal brothels and soaplands that are inaccessible to a good half of Tokyo. Henry's contractor is just the owner of a dozen of them. Henry's contractor desperately needs help in slaughtering a rival.

Even though the rival himself – the boss of a “foreign” mob – will to the last believe he's a guest and came here to form an alliance.

How damn sad it all is – nods to himself contracted Henry and, finding the porch of that club that serves as an entrance to another club, takes out of his Chloe purse a cigarette and starts staring at it with hatred.

Smoking on this mission has been forbidden.

✰

And at about that very crucial moment (“you have bewitched me body and soul”), a rude palm goes to rest on Henry's shoulder and makes him jump and hit the attacker elbow in the neck. It's getting dark. “Pride and Prejudice” has to be put aside and the guy resentfully puffs through his lips, turning around 180° degrees – this very attacker turns out to be just the club's bouncer, random idiot sent to accompany him inside. Fine – snorts Jekyll – lead the way; and in a moment he's already in the dark basement of the “Black Lotus” club, which leads to yet another door to much more closeted “Black Dragon” club. It is here this night, and more specifically in three hours, will be brought his target over whose arrival shake at least ten fearsome yakuza. Although, putting their problems in the hands of The Organization - which, in turn, swears to put these problems in the hands of its best agents - the fear of defeat in their hearts for some reason always comes to naught, and their hands reach out to rub their fat bellies. Indeed – if those agents are caught, no one will recognize in them your personal killers. If they're caught it's none of your business, and if they're killed it's none of your burden, and that may be the reason companies like The Organization that sell expensive assassin services are so popular. Surpluses sure have everyone, even such kind of people, but for all eight years of being hired, Jekyll has never been much interested in his corrupt high command because, like in good old times, fuck it all. I'm quite happy with my life – he thinks, stepping a high heel over the ringing mirror floor and examining the darkened room into which he's been brought.

Backstage. To the right – corridors in which one can hide and lure their prey. To the left – a dressing room of dancers. Forward and below lies a hall, more reminiscent of an arena, poles and scenes and tables and alluring statues of gold (not black?) dragons here and there. Thousands of lighted bonbori hang from the ceiling, although the electric lamps themselves are not yet turned off, and thus everything around immediately throws into dissociation and, as a result, Henry's head starts hurting.

“Theme night,” the random idiot dash bouncer approvingly grunts behind his back and leaves in thunderous pace.

Sure is – Henry hums and, after a moment of a little thought, turns left.

Sometimes a customer clearly presents all the details of an upcoming murder. Sometimes the method is left to the discretion of The Organization, and it successfully gives the agent responsible vague guidance and leaves to their imagination. So and this time. Even with such damn important mission, all his supervisor deigned to say was “undercover, no noise”. Jekyll knows many killers who need clear directions. He himself prefers to live by the rule more freedom more oxygen, so the plan in his head gets drawn in just a couple of moments.

When he opens the doors ajar, all greedy for novelty glances rush to pinch him from all sides. Henry gently smiles at the dark-haired girls and bright-eyed guys that, willingly or unwillingly, will tonight perform in this illegal, vulgar half-stripclub half-brothel; in front of dozens of power-hungry men, for whom will later be undoubtedly left to be torn to pieces. On their faces rudiments of makeup, sharp shoulders rise above piles of clothes tied at the waist. Jekyll's knowledge of kimono comes to a standstill at this place because everyone present is dressed in a mix between Iro-Tomesode and Yukata; right there on spot he suddenly decides he won't wear such. Under many eyes, he sits down on an ottoman by a lonely pier-glass and smirks at himself in the mirror.

Two and a half hours until bread and circuses. Even to such - “honey, I'm not ready!” - a slowpoke like him,  _ that  _ much time should be more than enough. Right?

✰

When the first sounds of traditional instruments rise from below, Henry – twitches and – finishes painting lips in bright pink lipstick; carefully, so as not to get cut by the blade hidden in it. On his face a bit of white powder, in styled hair hides a bira-bira hairpin (holding on the word of God and yet), and his eyes are lined with kohl. From a more or less traditional-looking kimono, his turns to be the horror of all the geishas of the world, for without thinking twice, he pins up its long sleeves and slices the middle with scissors, creating a peculiar dress trimming from the hemline. The body of a sewn with gold threads phoenix does not, though, fall under this trim, and therefore, such an outfit still looks worthily, albeit a little more blatantly. But— it's not like Jekyll does this for himself, dammit! He has a sacred duty to fulfill! And also to kill mob bosses in bed – and, by the way, all men in general – is much easier than while they're in a clear mind.

Yes. It may well be that Henry's decided to drag his target into a lonely room under the pretext of fucking, but it's not that how he does his job is someone's business.

One by one, he and the other dancers are led to the main hall – it is already seething from the number of folks gathered to gawk and jerk off, and among them, a group of “foreigners” stands out like an eyesore: they're all bloody British. How on earth has Japanese Yakuza decided to contact the mainland mafia can only be of thoughts and guesses, and Henry wants to do neither the first nor the second. He – bloody British – with one leap finds himself on the central stage, under the approving hooting of the crowd and discontented squints of the staff, and charmingly smiles. All this is a tactic. All this is a strategy. He'd begun to learn how to divert looks with  _ looks  _ and épatage early on when The Organization found and sheltered him, and over the years has worked such science to mastery. While all his comrades in misfortune and scene hurriedly stand closer, he slowly glances around the room from under half-closed, shiny eyelashes, searching for the target itself. He safely forgot the photo that was attached to the order file. He's an idiot. But he's also one of the best assassins and when someone remotely resembling a bodyguard moves behind the sofa of a group of men, when to the one sitting on the very left are bent to whisper in the ear, and when that one nods affirmatively, in a dark suit and silver cufflinks like a Devil visiting the abode of vice; Henry adds two and two. He begins to dance, followed by others.

And sure enough, the attention of everyone at once he attracts not, and therefore lifts his head, snorts, and occupies the strip pole. Does he know how to dance on it? No. Does it matter? Also no. Improvisation is the mother of all, thinks Henry (though also he thinks God how not to bang the fuck down) and swirls and rubs over that pole like a legit stripper. At some point, the special effects operator decides to finally do his job and darkens the room, leaving a spotlight only on him and his red-gold kimono, which itself flashes like a phoenix. From its folders, Jekyll takes out an equally red-gold fan and coquettishly hides his adorned face behind it. To incidentally correct the vulgar trim. To move through rows.

Eyes on the nearing target, the brunet fake-shyly bows off for the mobsters, flirting with lightest touches and a thin smile. All faces soon are turned to him and it is damn good and pleasant, and it is exactly what's needed; until the moment when he – with obstacles taking the form of “baby don't go” and clutching his wrists oily hands – reaches the desired table and sofa. His target. Mob boss. Bloody Brit. While his colleagues and bodyguards ooze lust from their eyes on 100%, in  _ his _ eyes some damn interest would be on only 30%. Maybe 20%. So, not at all the reaction needed to be squeezed outta him.

What if he's ace? - thinks the best assassin with a note of panic. - If he's ace, I'll harakiri everyone in this room and then myself.

And just like that, improvisation enters the play again. Jekyll whirls around his target as if by chance peeking at it closer. Not much is visible in the gloom, but most definitely this guy is about thirty, he has messy – blond? - hair and brightly shining eyes. Looks he pretty good, for Henry was expecting some another fat-bellied dude with loose eyelids and shaved head; fake-fucking this one won't be super nasty. (Damn, it's a pity even to kill him). Despite the proud arousal in the air, when he approaches the boss from behind and lifts his Adam's apple with a folded fan, half of those present immediately clutch at their weapons. Dangerous – there are too many of them. However, Henry's target does not give a single sign of nervousness – and again interest, mother fuck him! - only dismisses combat readiness of his subordinates with a hand. He allows Jekyll to quite impudently sit on his knees and snaps his fingers – as if by order, as if he is the one in charge in this place, the performance starts anew and soon the attention of all his people switches to other geisha dancers. Henry's trying to see in his – green – eyes at least one small straw that could be caught and used. But whatever-his-name-Jekyll-doesn't-remember just bows his head and looks at him with a question and a mock. This whole situation is ridiculously fucked up.

This is point #1 of Henry Jekyll's list “what exactly went wrong on that goddamned night”.

They stare at each other for so long that initially, the words from his throat tumble down super unerotically:

“Mind if I'll be your perfect gift tonight?”

No, fuck, of course he does mind, what the hell are you saying, idiot? – immediately gives himself a mental slap the brunet and lowers his eyes, hiding nonexistent embarrassment and tangible irritation. Even more insulting is a light shrug from the side of his target, like ugh whatever you want to do, and what Henry wants is to kill this asshole right here and now. But he exhales.

“I've heard you're one very important person. It will be an honor-”

“Stop it,” finally (!) opens mouth the green-eyed and in his voice only contempt. “As if I don't know why are you here.”

Okay, think fast, who ratted you out? Jekyll waves his fan to hide a wrinkle on his forehead, appeared from hard pondering. The Organization wouldn't have done it, but someone from the yakuza's lower ranks, someone who's had to be brought into the affairs of the highest circle (such as the bouncer or damned special effects operator)? Yeah, those had no motive to lose their lives. The brunet doesn't know what methods of torture are used in Britain, but for some reason suspects it's nothing nice, kind, and shiny.

“Your oyabun wants to appease me and you are just a pliable body for one night.” The blond sighs. “As I expected.”

Ah. Okay. Henry can work with this.

“You're right.” Now he can remove whorish notes from voice, this one loves au naturel. “But I dream of getting out of here, and you, I suspect, too, soooo… I see no reason not to use each other's services.”

Now he's looked at (hallelujah!). It hits him again, just how damn young and good-looking is this asshole who'll already be dead before dawn: he has such fucking pale skin and strong hands that when he reaches out to intertwine their fingers, Henry strikes electricity. His fragile palm with pianistic fingers fits too perfectly into a rude palm of the Brit, studying this of their bonds with undisguised interest. When he bends down to fix his pinned with bira-bira hair, from Henry's thoughts leave only obscene, and from feelings that terrible blush blooming on cheeks, and he knows that the guy opposite notes it way too splendidly.

“Very well then,” he muses and raises, forcing the assassin to follow. “I cannot refuse such a poised thing, mm?”

Okay just don't forget – Jekyll prays to himself – blade is in the lipstick tube, blade is in the lipstick tube, blade is in the lipstick tube.

✰

And! He forgets about the blade in the lipstick tube.

Well, just to make excuses, he doesn't really  _ forget _ . It's just that hands of the blond-boss push him into a small brothel-like room – hell, no wonder, they're literally in an illegal brothel – and jerk at himself abruptly. Henry stumbles on his not very long heels and successfully lands on his chest; totally unsuccessfully discovers absolute emptiness in head and frowns. Hey, quick pause. He's here to kill this guy. Not to fuck him. Not to be fucked by him. Not moan in his lips like a practicing whore and not let him throw onto the bed. Not push apart own hips impatiently, rubbing against the protruding lump of his trousers. Now wrap arms around his neck, like, sexually, not in an attempt to strangle. Then why the heck is he doing it all now?!

When the thought codenamed “what in the fucking dawn is happening” reaches his brain, Henry tries to push the potential lover away, but the potential lover categorically refuses. He presses the assassin's wrists to the bed and hangs over him like a hunter over its prey, and uh-oh how the turntables. Jekyll stares straight into his bright green eyes when Brit wipes incarnadine lipstick from his mouth with fingers and pushes them between his teeth. “Lick it” says his gaze. Henry obeys. Out of the corners of his mind, he's trying to find all this fuckshit a logical explanation. Let's say he hasn't slept with anyone for about… two months which's fucking long. Let's say there yet has been no boy or girl or anyone else who could compare in him with strength and put on shoulder blades and make real hard. And this bitch fits into such a description as good as any. Let's also say he's long dreamed of closely engaging in role-play and look such a wonderful case turned up. But all this doesn't negate the fact that he has a job! And if this job will end in failure, The Organization will tear and throw everyone and everything that comes to its hand.

“You're dissociating?”

What? Henry slams long eyelashes at the sarcastic question and immediately gets a bite into his already bare shoulder. Ouch. Got it, got it. They're here to use each other's services.

His beautiful kimono creases and almost falls off, and in the very end, all the brunet's thoughts get shifted and replaced when a hot hand goes on the inside of his thigh and sneaks higher. Shifted – sideways. Replaced – by lust. He fidgets and mumbles and cries out when a tongue joins that hand and the target-boss' head hides between his legs. All this…. is terribly… not according to the plan. But to hell.

Henry in a cosmic, unknown way takes out his fan and (inadvertently punches himself in the face with it but) tries to call for some fresh air. Or just bite it. Anything to drown out the sounds coming from his mouth. Bira-bira finally falls out of his hair, landing on the silk of sheets.

To hell with that plan.

Brit leaves him at the very porch of orgasm and looks down. For some fraction of a second, the best assassin recalls that he is the best assassin and all available methods of murder at the same time – while looking at his partner with hatred. But the  _ next  _ second, his throat is squeezed to spots dancing on vision, and boss leans in to kiss his forehead and – that's fucked – slowly, slooowly unzips his jeans. Everything will be as he wants, Jekyll realizes.  _ Everything will be as he wants _ .

To hell with The Organization.

He fucks Henry just as slowly. As if enjoying the action itself, the very sensation of muscles stretching and accommodating under him and the supple of a body. Jekyll would gladly tell him everything he thinks, but cannot; his neck is still in a strong grip so he can only inhale once at a time, and so he doesn't feel like wasting this air on curses. Especially,  _ fuck. _ He's not felt better for such a long time. A very,  _ very  _ long time.  _ Fucking _ long time. His body, this petty traitor, flexibly arches in all the necessary angles, dick fills with blood and goes standing like a proud soldier. In the eyes opposite he cannot discern anything but soft darkness, and this is damn exciting; and Henry is trying to appease his boyfriend-for-one-night with a moan, but out of him comes only a miserable sob. There are just too many bodily sensations, they merge into one and prevent from concentrating, understanding, thinking. At some point, he almost tries to jerk himself off, but his arm is painfully grabbed and bitten, and okay. Okay, that almost makes him come right here and now. His fan falls to the floor with a thud.

To hell with job altogether.

Honestly, would this guy ask him, Henry's ready to become his personal bitch.

✰

(And now he's given a perfect opportunity to kill him. He's sleeping. Jekyll doesn't remember his name.

Jekyll mostly doesn't remember anything from his file. But does where he put the lipstick with the blade. And if he'd want to, he could use even this cute violet canopy that frames their bed. He outstretches his arms.

Touches the blond's lips with fingertips. Under neon light pink polish on them glistens purple. His breath is so calm. He's so trusting. No. There was none of it in his eyes back there in the main room. Trust.

_ Trust _ .

Jekyll sighs and tucks his nose into another's shoulder under a black shirt. He doesn't feel anything. In childhood. In teenagehood. Now. But there are substitutes. There is what superficial and just as hard to catch.

In the stale air here smells of sex. He closes his eyes. Trust.)

✰

Just what was he thinking?! The brunet slams the door so loudly that in his ear whistles, and reaches for a deadbolt, although understanding perfectly well this will not stop his pursuers. Failed the job – get a knife in the back, and fuck none will interest in a fact you're actually one of the best assassins and all that. Henry's been hiding from his colleagues third day in a row; the yakuza that ordered him to kill the British boss with a heavenly tongue and cock was furious to learn he… well… didn't. So now everything comes in handy in fights – guns, forks, knives, and loads of other crap; who knew The Organization has so many agents in Japan? Definitely not him.

When the closed door begins making menacing sounds of shoulders beating against it in an attempt to break it out, Jekyll – swears and – searches for alternate escape routes. Here is a stove, a ventilation passage above it, but he won't creep in there (damn sushi). Here's a bed, but under it's all solid and actually only horror protagonists hide under beds (he doesn't consider himself as such). Here is a window… hm, yeah… a window. Of the fourth floor. Whose apartment is this? Devil knows!

When the sound becomes more aggressive and the prospect of killing himself from the fourth floor doesn't seem so bad, the first thing Henry does is dramatically raising his eyes to the sky. Gods must know he's suffering. The benefits of getting dicked down apparently do not cross out all the disadvantages that come after. This is at least unfair. At not least, homophobic. The last bullet of his gun sighs lonely somewhere in the magazine while he throws in the windowpane all the furniture falling into his arms, in hope of breaking it. Bitch.  _ Biiitch _ . Nothing happens and everything goes very bad. At the moment when that flimsy door surrenders under the pressure of two people, he decides to throw himself and tacitly fulfills this plan. Here the window shatters, the ground underfoot replacing by zero gravity.

Lifting his body from the asphalt afterward, Jekyll thinks of only two things. First – no kind of garbage of having a kaleidoscope of your entire life running before your eyes he had not. Second – uh, something tingles. Looking down in slow-mo mode, which temporarily absorbs the world around him, he notices the reason for his discomfort. One giant. Piece of glass. On the left side, right under the rib. Own blood at fingerpads takes Henry out of balance for a second; return back shots overhead, and he crawls into the nearest lane. There he vomits. Yeah. Not the best pastime. From a fresh wound begins to gush even more than before, and by force of will, never ceasing to swear, the guy rises to his feet holding on to the wall and staggers on. Need to get outta here, quickly, find bandages, where where where is a pharmacy, the nearest pharmacy, medicine,  _ hell _ – thoughts tangle and go astray like billiard balls. At some certain moment, a completely wild and inappropriate, previously forgotten but clear image of a hotel's address in the city center flies into Henry's head. Realizing he doesn't have better options anyway, he crawls on to that address. Not really far. Yeah. Heck. If only to totter to some crowded street and fast. Neighborhoods replaced by blocks, his eyesight starts floating for real. Fearing skate the fuck to death, brain stubbornly forgets to remember that bleeding out in such a state can be long and tedious, so Henry feels like he's dying right now currently. When, finally, ahead looms a crowd, the pursuers loom behind more distinctly; here goes a giga-throw forward, taking the last effort.

The best assassin covers his foul wound with a hand a nearly vomits again. And all was starting so well.

After some time, he vaguely understands his to-be killers have been left behind. Japanese and tourists around rage like a violent sea, and under other circumstances, he'd be glad to have joined it. Henry is an extrovert. He needs to talk to people, touch people,  _ kill _ people. He needs total and inseparable attention. Now he has to do everything quite the opposite, without giving and setting himself up – it is enraging, but as they say, wanna live know how to spin. Jekyll wants to live  _ very _ much. And he will spin to the last. And when onward appears a familiar-unfamiliar hotel, which address burns his brain with fiery letters, he almost breaks off and jumps onto the backstreet circling it. There are no people here at all – maybe that's why another shot immediately flies overhead, and it remains only to marvel how those fucking comrades-assassins have managed to catch up with him again. Turning around, Henry shoots back and shit eat water that was his last bullet, how's he going to fight back now?! That's an ass, friends. A fierce one. A strong hand grabs his collar and, like a kitten, throws him on the pavement and oh hell, oh cool. A piece of glass inside goes deeper and seems like something is tearing and Jekyll chokes on air, confident he will soon begin to cough blood. He is looking for a way out or possible weapons, but all that is here is a couple of stones underfoot and closed on a (electronic, see, that's his luck!) lock hotel's backdoor.

Yeah, so… stones. A couple of days ago he seduced a Brit, he can work with this too, right?

On the first, one of the agents who hammered him in a corner shrugs it off, on the second cocks a trigger, and on the third presses Henry's palm to the ground because, bastard, stays too close.  _ Crack _ ! Unpleasant. The brunet stubbornly bites his lip and tries to kick the offender with a leg. A piece of glass in the side pulsates, clothes turn into a second skin under the pressure of blood absorbed, thoughts in head tap dance irresponsibly. If only he had something on hand, if only to stop pouring red all over. I don't deserve to die like that – he thinks with a universal offense and mentally shows the world a middle finger.

Is this what triggers the next happenings? Once, grandma told him she used to be able to summon events, read tarot, and collect healing herbs. From the third, young Jekyll turned his nose, for the second was too restless, but the first? To show off the talent of ordering the whole being was a very strong desire indeed.

Now, for all the difficult years of his life, such an opportunity to him is finally provided. The heaviness of a foot disappears from his palm, and after it, the whole body of the damned agent collapses onto the cold pavement – Henry looks at him before rolling sideways by reflex, involuntarily causing the organs even more harm. Has to lean against the wall; the second agent only manages to throw up his gun before between his eyes appears a cute hole. Really suits him, the guy thinks. Then he almost loses consciousness and only by force of heaven remains with brains; raises eyes to his savior and…  _ fuck _ . Now it all comes to Jekyll firmly and to the very end. The address of this hotel was in the file about his last target. Because of whom all this fuss has begun. Who is now standing right in front of his eyes, clutching a gun with a barrel that hasn't yet cooled, jamming dark sunglasses on his face (Ray-Ban – notes Henry's inflamed mind at last –  _ fucking rich people _ ). Nearby him stick out at least two more – or three or four or maybe Jekyll has doubles in his eyes – bodyguards, dragging bodies to the hotel and right out of its darkness fishing buckets of water and washing blood from the asphalt. Well and he… also engages in things… lies here peacefully, right?

“Hi,” he ushers words and gets horrified – there's no voice, this is practically a whisper. In principle, logical for someone who's  _ fucking dying _ .

The blond – and this can be seen even from under sunglasses – measures him with an appraising gaze.

“You don't look very good,” he says and wow rude rude. Who did I even fuck? - goes Henry's first thought and second – And it's for you I dressed into a geisha?!

“As you can see,” he wheezes instead of pouring out a stream of accusations and winces. Hurts. Childishly and to hell with the whole world. He doesn't feel anything, but even those who try to commit suicide don't want to die. What to say about him. Hurts.

Hurts.

“You're bleeding inside,” the Brit-blond notes, and absolutely nothing can be read from his face. A very sweet, inviting emptiness. Jekyll decides to roll his dice.

“Then help me maybe?” and at the end slips, sobs: “Please.”

_ I just don't wanna die like here, like this _ .  _ Looking at your damn face and all _ .

“So that you'll try to kill me again?” he grunts. “Or did you think I wouldn't have guessed that under an innocent pretext of cooperation they'll palm me off a mercenary in a skirt? Huh. That's exactly what happened.”

He tilts his head like an owl, clearly stealing this trick from the arsenal of his one-night romance. If he knew about the “mercenary”, why didn't he do anything? Why didn't snap Henry's neck, why didn't slaughter him in bed while he was sleeping? Why – in the early morning – just disappeared and left him alone, unharmed?

What's wrong with you? - thinks Jekyll, but he is so tired that even this thought comes with unprecedented difficulty.

“Although I must admit, you and I had a fine time together,” that asshole grunts.

At some point, on his face at last (!) flickers some thought or feeling or decision. Henry grabs at it like at the last straw, but straws have a tendency to split at the most inopportune moments. Desperate not to fall into the abyss of darkness, all he has time to feel is

~~ Trust ~~ . _Hurts_

✰

Waking up is hard. It's even harder to realize the pain in the side hasn't gone away, only subsided a bit – which means Henry Jekyll is still alive, which means there's no one to pay the last honors to. Whether this is a calming thought or a terrifying one, he doesn't have time to figure out. Cold light hurts his eyes, blood in ears suddenly foams, and the guy jumps up; what, of course, immediately regrets and cringes on the bed.  _ The bed _ . With soft sheets and satin pillows. With a carved headboard. So…

On a nightstand nearby gets found a greeting bulletin “Have a great time at our five-star hotel!”, and despite that it dawns on Henry slowly, it does happen. He looks at his hands and nails with pink polish peeled off, then looks at his side – bandaged – and sighs. Is this all even good? Brit-blond slash one-night stand clearly took pity of him. Now go guess what he wants in return – what assholes like him even want and demand and extort. Obviously not another hookup (although who knows). And even if so, what if he is literally into some dark shit like gang rape with shibari? So, no relaxing next to him under fear of anything at all.

Though actually – Jekyll realizes with horror and out of a sudden – the prospect of fucking with the former target again and kinky so frightens him far less than being thrown on the street without a single plan in head.

Bracing heart, he still steps over the threshold: his room is quite comfortable and much better than the one in which he had to doss before – damned Organization, saving money even for the best assassins! - and at the exit of it, he is waited by a nice girl with, and this is evident, dyed hair. Her sweet customer smile turns into a predatory grin barely she notices the brunet, and without losing a second, she is already actively gesturing to the left, yes further left, no idiot, not here. Although Henry's brain works poorly for it is now affected by the already sewn wound, it nevertheless juxtaposes two and two this time: seems like nothing complicated about it. He is being led to the boss. And on the way to the boss here and there from the nearby halls emerge those who look like goons, and those who look like hirelings, and those who look like making up high crime circles. Jekyll – not wanting it himself – has fallen into a real den. Of snakes, dragons, tigers. Now it remains only to understand which one of them is his friend. For some reason, it's still a million-dollar question. Best it be in euros, though. He doesn't have any tattoos – Henry had plenty of time to examine his naked body – and doesn't wear initials, on his phone screen Ferrari car; a typical distraction for the dimwitted. His password is not the date of birth and not the address of birth and not the time of birth.

Now, when Henry is once again alone with him, he feels uncomfortable. Thus, interrupting a question ready to break off the blond's lips, asks his:

“What's your name?”

They are in a room that looks at least ten times richer than the one in which Jekyll woke up. In the very its center stands a table with menacing tech equipment, as well as books, as well as reports. All of them obviously serve the good purpose of the prosperity of a criminal empire. Of course, the brunet has always known the life of a mafia boss ain't an easy one, but just, like this?! Respect.

“What?” the Brit chuckles, but to hell with him, Henry's been fucked tired to call him Brit, so he repeats:

“Your name. It was in your file, but I forgot.” Shrugs. “Remind.”

After an ominous silence lasting a minute during which Jekyll manages to get angry, pray, and repent; after such ominous silence, the guy opposite literally explodes with laughter and despite that laughs he nice and cute and would Henry be a poet, he'd undoubtedly have composed a sonnet about this laugh; despite that, now such a laugh makes him roll eyes. Seriously? He was dying here a couple of hours ago (really? Hours?), and now this bitch laughs at him!

Having caught his indignation with some magic of subconscious, the blond finally calms down, grabs at the table to bring balance to his life, and gives him an answer.

“Hyde. Edward Hyde.” And after a pause also: “Here's something to moan at night, eh?”

Henry steadfastly passes this hint-mock past his ears and drops the bomb of a question again.

“What happened?”

“My medics patched you up. And here you go.”

Hyde's gaze absentmindedly runs across his face before sliding back to the tablets and papers; it is clear that least of all in the world he was expecting the awakening of his unsuccessful killer, for metaphorically and literally, he's in work up to ears. However, this Henry stops not. There is little that stops him in this life.

“Why?”

And again a haze of silence hangs, and again the blond replies with a noticeable delay, albeit without laughter.

“You said please.”

Jekyll isn't satisfied with such an explanation. Hyde can see it. He can see him through, actually. It should scare. It doesn't.

“And I got curious why didn't you kill me that night.”

“And you me? If knew who I was and why was I sent. Why didn't you order to shoot me? Or didn't strangle himself?”

Didn't want to – is read all over the perimeter of Hyde's lowered face, and the best (former?) assassin suddenly quite brightly understands who he is. Edward doesn't have tattoos and fanciful jewelry, he neverminds about expensive cars, despite the fact he's trying to convey otherwise to others. In a crowd of other mobsters, he is sure to be mistaken for not-a-boss; all of his, though existing, feelings he hides under a lock of steel. Him real know very few, half of them are probably already dead. So and he wants to be. Dead.

He has nothing more to lose, not even himself. It's destroying. He put his life into the hands of the first assassin that came across – although came across rather cute – but Henry didn't use this sacred privilege; now Hyde doesn't know what to do next.

Aloud, he only says:

“It was a pity to spoil such beauty.”

Henry sees his former target through and through, too, and both don't know what to do with this seeing.

✰

(That's why they conclude a business agreement. Jekyll doesn't want to shit his skill on streets, nor does he want to start own campaign – so he gladly sells his mastery to the British mob boss, becoming his personal killer and bodyguard. That boss accepts him gladly – into his gang, bed, life. The first few days they buzz around each other like moths and then fuck like rabbits and in a fit of passion Henry even forgets that it would be nice to give the injured side some time to heal. He still doesn't 100% believes his success, and this is acquired; years of betrayal and knives in the back, real and not so, haven't been in vain. Sometimes he thinks his so sudden lover will swallow him like a wolf and lick his bones; sometimes in his presence, he puts a hand on the hilt of a gun. Hyde notices this. He keeps silent. And he is very tired. In his eyes, features of his face, shoulders and palms, everywhere there is an unlimited emptiness and sometimes when they lie together on the bed that smells of sweat and sex; sometimes when he falls asleep first, and Henry remains to draw lines on his skin; sometimes it seems to him that he is the only thing that kept and continues keeping the blond from— a lot of things. They are so abrupt. Such relationships never last long. Henry also knows people weren't made to mend people. And he will definitely never be allowed into all the hidden chambers of Hyde's heart. Not that he needs them.

“Would you kill me if your former bosses offer to take you back?” Edward asks after a week together and Henry instantly cocks a trigger. He hopes to satisfy with such an answer, but both know much better.

No. This is because there will never be such an opportunity, hypothetical even – Jekyll assures himself. The Organization doesn't forgive, it doesn't need traitors. But these are all just stupid excuses, right? He doesn't feel anything. There are substitutes. There is trust and care and superficial love, passion. There is a sense of safeness.

“I don't want you to die,” he says after four weeks together, and firmly orders: “Don't die.”

Edward smirks, but nods. He is ready to execute this order.)

**Author's Note:**

> come haunt me on [tumblr](https://moon-hedgehog.tumblr.com/) & [twitter](https://twitter.com/moon_hedgehog) ♡


End file.
